Going Up
by Griever11
Summary: Castle and Beckett go apartment hunting. Season 2 AU, post Boom. A co-authored fic by me, chezchuckles and jstar1382.
1. Chapter 1

A co-authored fic by chezchuckles, griever11, and jstar1382.

* * *

"Double sinks in the bathroom. You'll need it. Trust me."

"Castle."

"So you don't have to wait your turn!"

She's going to pull a muscle if she keeps rolling her eyes, but Castle is insufferable. Not for the first time today, she regrets ever allowing him to come apartment hunting with her.

"I live alone. Why would I need to wait my turn?" she mutters, checking the text on her phone to make sure they're heading in the right direction.

It's the fifth apartment they've gone to look at and she's ready to throw in the towel. She's tired, hungry, Castle is grating on her nerves, and if she's being honest with herself, nothing will ever live up to her last one. She spent so much time making it hers, decorating it with little reminders of the life she's lived over the years, and now everything's gone - blown to smithereens - what's the point anyway?

Castle makes a noise and she turns to him, only to be met with a suggestive leer. "For now. You live alone, _for now_."

Right. She presses her lips together, takes a controlled breath. _That's_ the point. Find an apartment so she doesn't have to suffer through Castle's constant looming presence in her life. He's around in the mornings when she wakes up, he's around when she gets to work, and of course, they go home together. Even though he gives her space at night, he's _always_ around.

And it's stifling.

She's so busy lamenting about her unfortunate living arrangements that she doesn't notice the light at the crosswalk has turned red. It's only when Castle's fingers close around her forearm, pulling her back roughly, that she's jolted back to the here and now, the soles of her boots scraping along the curb as she narrowly avoids getting side-swiped by a manic cab.

"Okay, I know I've called you an invincible superhero before, but can you make a little bit more of an effort not to get killed on a daily basis, Beckett?"

He's chuckling good-naturedly, but she detects a trace of genuine concern in his words. She blushes. "Doing my best here."

Okay, maybe she wasn't being completely fair to him earlier. She does appreciate it, really. He's provided a roof over her head without a second thought, and he's even said she can stay for as long as she wants. Plus, the man can cook, and she hasn't once resorted to take out. Gone are the days of the Styrofoam temple.

It might be an unspoken rule that he's in charge of their meals, but she's come to look forward to dinner in the Castle household. And breakfast.

In fact, one morning last week she was greeted by the sight of him puttering about in the kitchen in nothing but a loose pair of pajama pants. She nearly tripped down the stairs. For a brief moment she even imagined creeping up behind him and wrapping her arms around his torso, palms against the warm skin of his chest, placing a kiss on his shoulder, lips skirting the top of the broad expanse of his back.

"My back? What?"

His voice startles her out of her memories and warmth creeps up her cheeks. He's smirking at her - oh god.

Okay, this is why she needs to find her own place. Soon. Prolonged exposure to Rick Castle is clearly messing her up.

(...)

If he's being honest here, Castle is doing it on purpose. Sabotaging her field trip.

He inwardly cringes at the silent admission, but he can't help it. What sane man would want to help the woman he loves (lusts after) leave his apartment? No one can blame him for making her apartment search an almost impossible endeavor.

He doesn't want her to leave.

In the mornings, seeing her in those floppy shirts she pulls on to hide whatever scanty silk she wears to bed, in the afternoons at the Twelfth, daydreaming about when they'll knock off and go home together, in the evenings-

God.

In the evenings.

There is just so much Kate Beckett in his life and he can't go back to how it was. He has skin and smiles, far away looks and intense conversations, teasing, innocent touching, not-so-innocent touching-

He's traveling a dangerous road, especially with Beckett at his side and scowling like a bulldog at the apartment building they've approached.

"Really, Castle?" she hisses.

"I swear it's better on the inside." His lips quirk; he wonders if she's seen Doctor Who, if the joke will go right over her head, if he can convince her tonight to slump in the office couch with him and watch a few episodes. If she'll put her feet in his lap and silently demand another foot rub, if he'll be able to press his thumbs into the curves of her calves under the pretense of releasing tension.

"It better be," she mutters. "My feet are killing me."

Foot rub it is. "There's an elevator in this one," he promises, pitching his voice into a chipper tone to hide the rough burr of sensuality that's taken up residence. He reaches for the door but she's already there, disallowing him the pleasure of chivalry once more. "See? I told you so. No more walk-ups for you."

She doesn't comment, striding purposefully for the lone elevator in the middle of a long brick entry. The floor is high-polish wood, probably recently sanded and re-stained, and the elevator has been painted a flat matte black.

"Interesting color choice," he remarks, unable to stop the string of useless but faintly damning comments he's had all weekend. He doesn't want her to leave, but he does realize that she'll have to eventually.

She'll have to.

But he won't make it easy on her.

He will _fight_ for her, even if that fight is passive aggressive.

Rick Castle is superb at passive aggressive.

Beckett punches the call button and stalks back and forth before the doors, her irritation not yet diminished. He knows if he had a better attitude, she would as well, but he can't get there yet.

He should try. He really should. Besides, this converted warehouse building is nothing at all like the whimsical traditional touches of her old place. It's not like she'll actually sign the lease for all this industrial steel and brick. She's not exactly into steampunk.

He can do better.

"The commute would be minimal," he offers. _Commute would be minimal?_ How lame. He can do better. He can. "And it's an up and coming neighborhood."

Beckett responds immediately, her shoulders coming down. "And 24 hour Chinese just down the street."

"Oh, God, Beckett. Your standards are woefully pathetic."

She slaps at him, the back of her hand connecting with his stomach. "Shut your mouth. Not all of us have _time_ to be world class chefs, Castle."

"Really?" he asks, pleased. The elevator has begun to whine as it makes its way from some higher floor. "You think I'm a world class chef?"

"I was being facetious," she deadpans.

And with Beckett, that's the thing that always gets him - that deadpan. She might be teasing, she might be serious; he just doesn't know. She's a mystery, even still.

And the only way he can unravel that mystery to his heart's content is by having her in his loft for all time.

(For all time?! Wait. Hang on-)

The elevator groans and the doors crunch as they begin to slide open. Both of them turn in alarm to the elevator's arrival, watching in trepidation as the doors part with all the whimper and heaving of a dying animal.

The car is empty. Wood paneling can't hide the age of the former service elevator, and though appealingly wide and broad, the metal floor with its convenient runnels for (bodily) fluids isn't at all encouraging.

Beckett clears her throat, gives him a look of shared wariness.

He grimaces. "After you?"

(…)


	2. Chapter 2

A co-authored fic by chezchuckles, griever11, and jstar1382.

* * *

She looks back at him. It's like she's playing a game of chicken with Castle. Each of them daring the other to make the first move. Which, when she thinks about it, is really representative of so much in their partnership.

She sighs.

This is ridiculous. She's a cop; there's no reason to be afraid. Yes, it's an old building, but people do live here. It's not like it hasn't been serviced.

Still, one thing's for sure, there's no way _she's_ living here, walk-up or no walk-up. But she'll go through the motions for him. She'll play along with his need to be her real estate agent.

On a breath, she swallows her pride and steps onto the dated platform. The elevator reminds her of a prop in an old horror movie or an episode of _The Twilight Zone._ One where the audience screams at the unsuspecting characters on screen for being so oblivious to the horribly awful decision they are about to make.

However, she's not a clueless, one-dimensional character. She knows better.

This is a _bad_ idea.

She's just too stubborn to back down.

It makes her act foolishly because if she's being honest with herself, the wobbly floor beneath her feet and the whine of the cables overhead has her wanting to run straight out of the building. Yet she takes a deep breath and turns back towards her partner, raising her eyebrow at the fact that he's still frozen in place.

"You coming, Castle? Unless you're suddenly out of reasons why this is the perfect apartment for me." She's proud of herself that her voice projects a confidence that she's entirely lacking.

He offers her a small upturn of his lips with a nervous laugh playing on his tongue, and he takes a step next to her.

"This _is_ the perfect apartment. You'll see. Just wait til we get up there." His words sound shaky, but she won't let his apparent nervousness get to her.

She's proving a point - riding the damn elevator to see what will inevitably be another imperfect apartment in a string of imperfect apartments. "I'll take your word on it."

It's like he's doing this on purpose, one dud after another. It really doesn't matter, because with or without his help, she'll eventually find one. Because she _has_ to. She can't live in his loft forever.

Kate grips the side railing as the elevator door groans to a close and the carriage shakes to life, ascending toward their destination. "How old did you say this building was again?"

"Turn of the century, but it has a lot of charming amenities."

"Yeah, _charming_ ," she mutters. "Turn of which century?"

He laughs, but it doesn't sound confident, and neither is she.

Her eyes have just fluttered up to the numbers on the vintage dial when a rumble of thunder shakes through the elevator. The overhead light flickers ominously. She turns to Castle and it's like he's seen a ghost, his cheeks drained of all color. He clenches the railing at his side.

"Okay. I'm starting to think this was a bad idea," he admits.

Just before everything slams to a stop and the electricity cuts out.

(...)

Castle has learned the hard way that Beckett is at her most dangerous when she's silent. And – he cuts his eyes to her, taking in the ramrod straight, rigid posture – she's been silent for a while. The only thing Beckett's done is jab continuously at the 'For Emergencies Only' button. Which, much to their dismay, has done absolutely nothing.

Not good.

They've been suspended in the car for what he feels might be only about thirty seconds. He's not sure, and he doesn't want to move to check his watch or his phone, just in case the slightest sway of his body movement sends the whole car crashing to the ground. She's so violent with that button-jabbing that every time the elevator rocks with it, he grits his teeth.

Of course, it's probably also for the best that he not move, make himself as small a target for her ire as he possibly can. And maybe if he stays in the corner unnoticed, she'll forget he's there until the elevator moves again.

Because surely it will move again. Up, with the help of electricity, and not down with gravity.

"Are you getting any reception?" Beckett is the first to break the silence, pausing her assault on the poor unassuming emergency button. Her hand stretches up over her head, phone clenched tightly in her fist. She huffs, rotating on the spot, eyes focused on the phone. "Because I'm not. My messages aren't going through either."

He fishes his own phone out of his pocket, carefully, and his heart sinks when he sees the 'No Service' in the corner of the screen. He taps out a quick message to the boys and Alexis anyway, hitting send in the hopes that it will eventually go through. He exhales, preparing to give her the bad news.

"Ah, no luck. Sorry. Sent a text to the boys just in case, though. Maybe it's just a temporary solar flare."

Beckett growls in frustration, jamming her finger on the emergency button one more time.

The car rocks.

If he squeals like a girl, she'll never let him live it down.

"You do know the definition of insanity, right?" The question slips out before he can stop himself. He can't help it, always needing to egg her on, wanting to get a reaction out of her, divert her attention from their impending doom. Sometimes he's rewarded by a quirk of a smile or an exaggerated eye roll, and sometimes (like now) she fixes him with the most menacing glare he's ever seen. He winces.

Here it comes.

" _There's an elevator in this one_ ," she snarls, her voice unnaturally low. Her lips are twisted in something like a - oh. Oh, she's mocking him. Her nostrils are flared, a vein pulsing from the middle of her forehead. "This is the _perfect_ apartment. _Just wait until you get up there_. Sorry to break it to you, Castle, but this feels like a pretty damn big sign. The Universe ain't having it."

Okay, that's funny. The corner of his mouth twitches and when he realizes his error, he clears his throat, rearranging his features into what he thinks may pass for a look of remorse.

She doesn't buy it.

"Are you seriously laughing right now?" She strides up to him, her heels clicking against the metal floor. It draws his attention to her legs, long, lithe, toned under those skinny jeans which he knows she keeps wearing to torture him. How does she even fit in them? And how long does it take to peel-

"Hey, ow!" He yelps as her finger stabs him in his chest. What the hell? This is what that poor 'For Emergencies Only' button has been subjected to? No wonder it refused to work for her. "Can you not poke me? That hurts."

"I hope it hurts. You deserve it - this is all your fault. The button is useless, we have no cell reception, and if I hadn't listened to you, I wouldn't be in this metal death trap."

"I..This - I didn't make the elevator stop," he sputters, indignant.

"You were the one who _had_ to see this apartment."

"Hey, you agreed see it."

"Only so you'd shut up about it."

"I was only trying to _help_." God, she's so infuriating. He may not have been completely above board with his intentions but the elevator getting stuck isn't his fault.

She's still glaring fiercely at him, like a lioness about to pounce. There's a reddish tinge to her cheeks, her eyes are bright with anger, and wow, she's _hot_ when she's pissed off. He's always had a thing for strong-willed bossy women, and Kate Beckett is as strong-willed as they come.

And as hot.

And bossy.

He's torn between being affronted and being aroused, and of course, he can't ignore the fact that he's seen her naked recently (even though he promised her he hadn't). Suddenly he's feeling warm - too warm all over - flushing with the stifling heat.

He pulls off his sports coat and lets it crumple to the ground. Undoes his cuff links. Rolls up his sleeves. He curses internally as his stupid, clumsy fingers fumble at the top button of his shirt. Eventually, he manages to slide the small disk free and swallows a desperate mouthful of air. Better. Still breaking out in sweat, but at least he can breathe.

"Castle, wh-what are you _doing_?" Beckett's voice has dropped an octave, hoarse.

Castle blinks at the change in her tone. He realizes suddenly that she's leaning in, standing close enough that they're practically toe-to-toe. He must have missed it while they were arguing, drawn to the other with their intensity of feeling, but she's-

 _Gulp_.

So close. Why is she so close? The elevator could fit a cow in here, hanging on a meat hook overhead with those convenient drains, slaughterhouse style. And yet she's right here with him, chest to - breast - oh God. He shouldn't go there. Not when the smooth skin of her neck looks as delectable as it does. Within his reach if only he narrows that little gap between them. He just wants a touch. _A taste_.

Whoa. Slow down.

Castle jerks back as if he's been touched with a cattle prod. His spine collides with the aged paneling of the elevator and he grunts, the thoughts knocked right out of his head. Being in an enclosed space with an angry-yet-hot Kate Beckett is messing with his brain and he feels slow and stupid and uh, was there a question? She asked him a question, didn't she? Right. What was he doing? Yes.

"I, uh. Coat was too warm," he manages to say. He kicks at the garment on the floor for emphasis. "No ventilation. It's getting hot in here."

Beckett doesn't address his answer, merely makes an unintelligible noise in the back of her throat, a combination of a sigh and a groan. It sends all sorts of wonderful, tingly feelings down his spine, arousal flooding his system. He has to keep a tight hold on the railing behind him because he's seconds away from grabbing her, pushing her against the wall, and making out with her.

Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip. It looks soft. Pink. It disappears just as quickly as it appears but now he's all kinds of bothered, thinking about where else it can go and Beckett still only inches away from him.

Her gaze is on the shirt he's just undone, but he notices that she's also alternating between his bare forearms and his face, and oh God, if she doesn't say something soon he's going to have to kiss her or maybe he's just going to have a heart attack.

Her eyes are blazing when they finally meet his. Dark. Angry. But glimmering with something unfamiliar. She exhales and her breath is warm against his skin - which doesn't help _anything,_ because he's already so turned on and uncomfortable and -

Her lips part. "So take off all your clothes."

 _What?!_

(...)


	3. Chapter 3

A co-authored fic by chezchuckles, griever11, and jstar1382.

* * *

Kate Beckett rolls her eyes. "It's a song, Castle." She dismisses him with a wave of her hand, but she knows dismissal isn't that easy. He's already unbuttoned his shirt. His chest and the smooth and golden skin that curves with his pecs are _taunting_ her.

Also how are his forearms so thick?

"Why the hell is it so hot in here?" she growls.

"Ah," he sighs, nodding now. "So take off all your clothes. Got it."

"Little slow there, Castle."

"Excuse me for not realizing just how _far_ back you were reaching for that one. When was that? 1998?"

"2002," she snaps. "Senior year of college."

"Oh my God, please tell me you have slutty co-ed stories-"

She slaps her hand over his mouth to silence him, not at all ready to hear what he thinks she did senior year of college.

He licks her palm.

Beckett's eyes widen. She jerks her hand back. "You…"

"Tried and true method, Beckett. Works every time."

"Sounds like a lot of people have tried to shut you up," she mutters, wiping her hand on her pants. Scowling. Her only defense is a good offense. "Next time, a ball gag."

He gapes at her. Flushed cheeks, bright blue eyes. Mouth parted.

Oh. Did she say that out loud?

Oh, _hell._ It's stifling in this elevator car.

Kate drags the tail of her shirt out of her pants and plucks at the fabric to fan herself. She wipes a hand at the back of her neck, pacing away from Castle and those forearms that flex and bulge every time he unbuttons another button.

Wait. "Why are you - what are you doing?"

"I have on an undershirt. Cool it, Beckett."

"I'm nowhere near cool right now," she growls. "Keep your shirt on. It's not that hot. You don't see me stripping."

He makes a noise in his chest that sounds like _please do_ and she glares, but now her feet have taken her back to him, a tight circle in the confines of this somehow very small former service elevator.

Is that her breathing? Harsh, raspy, sex-starved?

He blinks like a lazy cat, waiting for her to come to him. "It's a known medical fact that men's body temperatures are naturally higher than women's. You don't want me dying of heat stroke all because you needed a faster commute time?"

She drags in a rough breath, tries to glare at him; she really does try to rally. "You - you - you were the one."

"Oh, was I?"

Oh, _help._ She's going to maul him.

"At least unbutton your shirt a little, Beckett. Helps. You look like you're going to faint."

She shouldn't. Goading him is only playing with fire. But before she can even think better of it, she's popping the buttons on her dress shirt, one by one, from the bottom, her eyes locked on his. Challenge. Dare.

Castle peels his own shirt from his body and drops it on top of his jacket. His shoulders are so very broad. His biceps are mouth-watering.

"That should be a crime," she growls.

He blinks, all innocence. "What?"

"Filling out a white t-shirt like that."

(...)

"Be-Beckett?" he squeaks.

Is that his voice? Damn, who would've thought that the idea of his partner checking him out would leave him sounding like a cartoon character. It's not ideal, especially when her lithe body is inching closer.

He's going to faint.

Beckett opening her shirt while checking him out will be the death of him, but what a way to go.

"What's the matter, Castle? Can't handle the heat?" She smirks and her eyes trail down his body, holding a second too long near his groin. She's messing with him, she has to be. "It's not so fun to be on the receiving end of lewd comments, is it?"

Her gaze is burning a hole through his body. It does nothing to calm the hammering of his heart against his ribcage, but he does notice the hitch to her voice.

Not as cool and collected as she's trying to play it.

She's standing practically on top of him at this point, so much so that he can feel the warmth of her breath tickling his chin. The sliver of skin that's visible between the two sides of her now parted shirt is mesmerizing.

Black bra, his brain notes subconsciously.

Black lacy bra. And he wants more of it. So much more.

This is such a _bad_ idea. They're friends. They're partners. They joke. They flirt. But always with clothing on. That's the one most important detail.

There are rules - boundaries - and usually they have the benefit of being in public spaces with lots of people around. Usually, they're fully clothed. Usually, they haven't spent the last few weeks living out of the same space, seeing each other every morning, saying good night at the base of his stairs.

But not now. Now they're trapped, _alone_ , together, where they could definitely act on a couple fantasies of his that had to be removed from his last novel.

Hell, this situation itself could be excellent Nikki Heat inspiration. Either that or it's the start of a really bad porn movie. At this point, his brain is too muddled with heat and arousal to come up with a reason why they shouldn't just go for it. Why he shouldn't just pull her against his body and do all the dirty things he's imagining?

"You're standing really close to me, Detective. Are you scared of the dark?"

"If I said yes, would you protect me?" she whispers, lips brushing his ear, her teeth grazing the lobe.

To hell with playing it cool.

(...)

The atmosphere in the elevator shifts the moment she speaks against his ear. She can sense that he's no longer able to continue their little game; she can hear his ragged breathing and see that his chest is heaving. She can't help but trail her lips along the smooth line of his jaw, the taste of his skin on her tongue. She hums, a guttural sound from her throat that surprises even her.

""Don't you dare lick me again." she whispers in his ear. She paints his cheekbone with one flick of her tongue.

He's practically swaying into her.

She avoids the seeking nuzzle of his nose, pulls away. "Payback's a bitch, isn't it?"

He jerks back, both hands coming up to grip her waist as if to steady himself. Her shirt flutters open wider, goosebumps forming as air hits her exposed skin. She's suddenly very aware that her black bra is showing.

Good thing she put on a nice one this morning.

His hands squeeze. "I'll lick whatever I want." The strangled tension in his voice is her only warning before his mouth descends.

Her hands react instinctively, one curling around the back of his neck while the other splays wide over his abdomen. The material of his undershirt is thin and she feels him contract under her palm.

Delicious.

Their lips press together like they've done this a million times before. He pushes his tongue inside, and she grants entry, receiving his fierce exploration. His jaw is coarse with the beginnings of a stubble and every slide of his skin against hers sends a jolt of need straight down to her toes.

She tries pushing back, worrying his lip with her teeth, and he groans, retaliates by sucking her tongue into his mouth for more, deeper.

 _Oh._

It's exactly right. He tastes like this morning's first coffee and welcome winter sunlight, everything amazing in the world, and how has she lived so long without _this_?

Needing more, she fists his shirt, fingers scratching the skin at his side as she drags him closer. Her hand at the back of his neck tightens, urging him on unashamedly.

"Beck- _Kate_ ," he mumbles, words lost in the insistence of her mouth. His lips leave hers to line wet kisses down her neck, to speak against her skin. "This, this."

"So good," her voice joins his, a fever pitch to her need.

Without warning, his hands grip her and he lifts, spinning them so she's backed up against the wall. His biceps trap her in his embrace but she's not complaining. Not when she can feel every ripple of movement in his muscles as he presses against her, his hands cupping her ass, lifting.

Her legs wrap around his waist, hips connecting with his, that friction that makes her head fall back. Her hands sink into his hair, keep him close at work on her throat.

His lips leave her neck with a pop. She drops her head and his eyes lift to meet her gaze. She moves a hand to his cheek, her mouth forming a smile for him, and their lips meet again. Her mouth falls open immediately and she drinks him in.

The evidence of his desire is pressing into her, right between her legs, and oh my god, why is her clothing so restrictive? He's thrusting against her in a broken rhythm and she attempts to match his pace, slow but erotic. Winding her up.

The metal railing digs into her ass, a harsh counterpoint. She arches her back to make space for his hands as they move, scorching every last bit of skin. His fingers dip under the elastic band of her bra.

They're really doing this.

She's too far gone now, pleasure driving her to the brink of insanity. Her hands tug at the hem of his shirt, but they're so tangled together that she can't get the material higher than his chest. Good enough. Her fingers drag across his heated skin, play at his belly button, palms skating up to rub his nipples.

He almost buckles at that, groaning as he staggers, and she chuckles. Her legs tighten around him to hang on and she takes advantage of his momentary distraction to toy with his belt buckle. She's thrumming with anticipation but Castle is haphazard and too random in his lust to do much more than suck at her neck, the bare skin above her breasts.

She can fix that.

But of course, she's just begun to unbuckle his belt when all the lights come on and the entire carriage jerks into motion, sending them sprawling to the floor.

(…)


	4. Chapter 4

A co-authored story by chezchuckles, jstar1382 and griever11

* * *

How is it possible that Richard Castle is half undressed on the dirty floor of a service elevator, heading up (though not the elevator), with a still-writhing, panting Kate Beckett in his lap?

How has he _not_ already touched her breasts, so ripe and offered up?

How has the universe played so dirty and low a trick on him?

"Castle," she grunts. "You're - ouch - on my ankles."

"Oh, no, so sorry," he groans, trying to shift. Because, right, yes, her _legs are wrapped around his waist._ Still. As they were all through that encounter in the hot, emergency-lighted darkness. "Here. I-"

She hisses and pulls her knees up, suddenly breaking them apart, and he yelps as her ass rocks against his groin. His very stiff, exponentially tight groin.

"Kate," he grits out. "Just - don't move. For one second. Just-" He grips her ankles under her pants, bows his head forward to her knee, breathes heavily.

Her fingers come to the top of his head, light, transient, and then suddenly she's running her hands through his hair and tilting his face up to hers.

She kisses him, another rough treatment of lips and tongue, teeth and ferocity. He groans - this is so not helping his situation - but he can't manage to care.

And he takes his opportunity - it may be his last - to reach inside her gaping shirt and cup her breasts in both hands, squeezing.

"Oh, God, yes," she moans, her mouth open against his. "Yes, but - oh no. The elevator is stopping on the ground floor. Damn it."

"Stand up," he growls. "Off my lap. Before I ruin my pants."

She laughs, something airy and almost broken in the sound, and she unfolds from him with a grace that shouldn't be possible. She offers him her hand, her hair in waves around her face, her eyes like the darkness of the elevator a few minutes ago.

Not gentle, not kind - but filled with purpose, intent. Possibilities.

He takes her hand and she sees the state he's in, oh does she, but she says nothing. Simply reaches in and begins threading his belt together again.

So Castle starts to work on the buttons of her blouse. Even as the elevator stops and the doors open with a cheerful _ding._

(...)

What the hell is with this elevator?

One minute she's reasonable and in control, then the next, she can't get enough of the feeling of his body against hers. It has to be the heat, it can't possibly be anything else. But as the pad of his thumb grazes the naked skin beneath her blouse, she starts to question everything she's ever known to be true - even as the elevator doors open.

There's no denying it. They need to continue this as soon as possible, in the nearest supply closet if necessary. Her mind is reeling with all the ways he can unravel her with his body, his hands, _his mouth_.

And then she hears a throat clearing from beyond the open doors.

"Are we interrupting something?"

Oh God.

She whips her head towards the door where her detectives and a man that she can only imagine is the building's superintendent are standing, all of them quite smug.

"The elevator - broke," Castle stammers and not so subtly adjusts his t-shirt to cover his rather obvious condition. At least _he_ has enough coherence to attempt to put together an explanation because _her_ fine motor skills are entirely lacking.

She hears the guys snickering like two junior high students and it's apparent that there's no hiding what almost happened in the elevator.

Taking a deep breath, she steps out of the elevator with Castle on her heels, trying to look as normal as possible with her shirt gaping open and his still on the floor.

"I take it my text message went through? The cell service was touchy at best."

"Doesn't look like that's all that was touchy," Ryan teases. Esposito offers him a fist bump.

"Shut up," she says, rolling her eyes at what she can only imagine will be days of snide comments. It's like some awkward nightmare where she's standing naked in front of a class, only this is worse, because this is real and they're her partners. She's never going to live this down. There goes years of professionalism.

The man in coveralls gives her a look. "Didn't you guys see the out of order sign?" he mutters. "I'm surprised this old thing worked at all."

"Out of order sign?" she growls, straightening her shirt, fumbling with the last few buttons. Why won't her fingers work? Why did _his_ work so well when he was doing it?

Why did it feel so good?

"Yeah. We've been waiting for the repair guy to fix this thing for weeks."

She shoots a glare at Castle. He was the one talking up the wonders of the elevator beforehand, would he have actually gone so far to remove the sign just so he wouldn't have to climb another flight of stairs?

"I know what you're thinking, but it wasn't me," he defends.. He knows her too well. "Besides, how do I know it wasn't you who-."

She narrows her eyes. "I didn't -"

The super interrupts with a huff. "It was probably the damn kids that live on the fifth floor. You're the third set of visitors that have gotten stuck this week."

Kate nudges Castle towards his discarded shirt, still on the floor. His hands are sluggish, but he manages to shove his arms through the sleeves; he's not bothering to button it up.

She averts her eyes. "Well thanks for getting us out of there," she grits out, the words reluctant. She can't look at them directly, her cheeks still burning. She wishes they hadn't. She wishes for five more minutes with that kind of courage in her blood and _want_ in his eyes.

"Yeah, hope you guys didn't go through too much trouble." Castle smiles. He's messing with his shirt, the movement an attempt to hide his condition, but she can see it clear as day on his face.

She needs to get out of here.

"Not at all. Just wish you would've waited a day. I'd have won the pool," Esposito says, laughing.

"Yeah, I think LT won like $500 on you two."

"Grow up," Kate groans and elbows him aside. The whole precinct will know soon enough and every moment of her private life will be dissected like it's a plot point in a Nikki Heat novel. She can't breathe. She needs to not be in the lobby anymore.

She stalks away from them, fingers still refusing to work. She abandons the attempt, lets her shirt gape open at the top in favor of yanking open the lobby door.

Castle follows her out.

"Kate." He sounds rough, unmade. "Kate. Stop."

She turns toward his voice, not even able to catch her breath before his hands cup her face and pull her mouth against his.

Insistent. Hot. Claiming.

When they break apart, he's glaring at her. "Don't you walk away from me. From this."

She stares up at him for a heartbeat and then her grin splits across her face, unable to mask her joy. She lurches back into him, arms around his neck to claim his mouth again.

Apparently it isn't just a stifling, psychotic elevator, and it's not just her - kissing is something they get to do now.

(...)


	5. Chapter 5

A co-authored story by chezchuckles, jstar1382 and griever11

* * *

This box is _heavy_.

Castle's fingers are straining along the bottom and he huffs, shifting so he can get a better grip on it. He leans against Beckett's front door, propping it open so at least it takes the weight off his already aching back.

"Keep the door open!" Beckett's voice rings out from inside the apartment. She emerges, a large duffel bag slung across her torso and another heavy looking box marked 'Kitchen' in her hands.

"Hey, give me that bag," Castle says, even though he knows his back won't appreciate the added weight.

"I'm fine, Castle, but you're sweet," she murmurs as she walks towards him. Her lips brush over the skin of his cheek as she goes by, hip checking him. "This is the last of it. We're done."

He groans in relief, pushing off the door. "You have so much stuff," he whines. His arms ache and his knee – well. Safe to say they're not getting creative in bed any time soon.

Beckett narrows her eyes at him. "Me, so much stuff? Excuse me, mister five lightsabers and fifty remote controlled helicopters."

"Okay, that's fair," he concedes, laughing. "You sure you have everything?"

"Yeah, this is it." Her face alters, eyes sweeping away from him. "I'm actually going to miss this place."

They both turn to face her now empty apartment. It's taken almost two weeks and more than a few trips back and forth, but they've finally managed to get everything packed up and moved into his loft.

Her shoulder bumps his and Beckett sighs, wistful and just a little sad. "Lots of good things happened here," she says.

A memory flashes in the back of his mind. "Like the time your dad almost-"

"No, definitely _not_ that," she chuckles. She looks up at him - up, because all her heels are now neatly arranged in the shoe closet in his loft and she's only in her Converses today - and she grins. "But um, that first dinner we had with Dad? Yeah. You were so nervous, and you wore a tie. You were cute."

Castle wrinkles his nose. "I wanted him to like me," he mumbles.

"He already liked you, babe. Come on."

His brain is still catching up to her statement – Jim already liked him? What? – when he realizes Beckett has walked out the door. He blinks, takes one last look at the vast blank space that used to be his girlfriend's home, and then he starts after her.

The door slams shut behind him and it's the profound symbolism about the end of an era. And it's not just his melodrama talking. It's the end of them living separately. It's the end of waking up at night missing her, an end to not having her around to discuss a case or book idea, an end to his place or hers, an end to logistics and nosy neighbors and hoping she's not lonely when she goes to bed alone.

He smiles and he bounces on his heels, excitement blossoming in his heart like a budding flower in spring.

And that _is_ melodrama, and he's good with that.

When he catches up to Beckett at the end of her hallway, she's wrestling with the fire escape door, not quite managing with her hands full.

"Didn't they fix the elevator last week?" he asks, nodding at the shiny double doors across the hallway. "Let's take the elevator, I'm too tired for the stairs."

Beckett looks at him pointedly, eyebrows arched, lips pursed. He gets it. He really does. The elevator doesn't have the best track record, breaking at least three times a month. It's the reason they usually take the stairs when they stay at her place.

But right now he's exhausted and nostalgic and the elevator... the elevator holds a special place in his heart. He grins at her. "For old time's sake. Come on, Beckett."

He sees the moment she gives in, her shoulders relaxing as she backs away from the fire-escape door. She grunts her acceptance, heaving the box against her chest and making her way to the elevator.

Castle catches up, and then struggles with the call button for a moment. He manages to get it to light up only after some effort, jabbing repeatedly. But she's silent by his side, and their shoulders bump as they wait for the car.

"Good things happened here too," he says, echoing her sentiment from earlier.

Beckett's eyes slide to his, amused. Her lips curl in a smile. "Yeah, I'd say so. Didn't even need an emergency stop button."

"Kinda started this whole thing, didn't it? Us."

A blush colors her cheeks. "You mean when you groped me and gave the boys a free show?"

"Yeah, well you weren't complaining." He rakes his gaze down her body, being obvious about it.

The elevator dings. Beckett rolls her eyes at him as she walks into the newly refurbished car. "You're impossible."

He follows her in, presses the button and watches as the doors slide shut. It rumbles, groaning as it begins its descent.

"It's just like our first time," Castle quips, nudging her shoe with his own. He laughs at her disgruntled face. "Pre-first time at least. Same sounds, same groaning. And I'm not talking about you. Maybe–"

"Don't say it, Castle, I'm begging you."

"Okay, but really, wouldn't it be funny if–"

A metallic shriek echoes around them. The car jerks, shudders to a stop. It's violent enough that the boxes fall out their hands, crashing to the ground.

Then the lights go out.

"Castle, I am going to kill you."

(END)

 _Chezchuckles: I adore tropes and it's even better breaking them with these two fantastic women._

 _Griever11: This was a wonderful experience. Thanks for the many laughs, ladies!_

 _Jstar1382: I love you two dorks. It was so fun and I can't wait to do it again._


End file.
